


Sominous

by LadyKenz347



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bedsharing, Dream Magic, Dream Sex, F/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 06:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18424596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/pseuds/LadyKenz347
Summary: Pansy Parkinson comes from a long line of seers, able to share dreams and chase nightmares with the power of touch.And there is no one more plagued by the dark dreams of the recent past than Harry Potter and no price is too high to rid himself of them.** First Place Winner of the Slytherin Cabal's Death by Quill 2019 Competition Round Two**





	Sominous

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [DBQ2019Round2](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DBQ2019Round2) collection. 



> Endless love to my anon (for now) alpha and beta. You are my dream team. I adore you.

It all started sixth year.

 

Draco had appeared with purple shadows under his eyes and a weary trudge in his steps. Pansy could _feel_ his insomnia. It clung to her skin when he was near, leaching into her until she felt it in her bones. One night when neither of them could bare it, she had snuck into his bed. With her palm against his bare chest, she pushed the nightmares from his mind and filled the void with a vision of him in a hammock alongside a lazy tide rolling against a sandy shore.

 

The Parkinsons had Seers in every generation that had boasted a daughter since they had begun archiving births. Their ancient rituals were passed on, mother to daughter, and it was exactly how she knew that Trewlaney was a half-witted, barely capable Seer with no more natural talent than a circus witch.

 

But Pansy? Pansy had power. It thrummed in her veins and poured from her soul; born proudly with ambition and goals, she’d be damned if she wasted it by hoarding her talents until she birthed a daughter.

 

After the war, clients weren’t hard to come by, even given her reputation. There was no shortage of fucked up witches and wizards who needed to forget the traumas they’d endured, to chase away a nightmare of a loved one they’d never set their eyes on again, or, maybe, to take a chance to see them once more.

 

Her clients paid handsome sums to share her bed, but while there were more nefarious connotations with her line of work, they never touched more than palm to chest.

 

In the months following the Battle of Hogwarts, she had shared a bed with former Death Eaters and inmates of Azkaban, with victims of Unforgivables, and those that had been forced to endure the unthinkable, but she’d never quite seen anything like this.

 

Shifting in her seat, Pansy tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail against the polished walnut armrest of her ivory wingback chair. She crossed and re-crossed her ankles simply for something to do and tried her best to maintain strict eye contact and a level chin with Harry Potter.

 

The exhaustion was plain on his face, red rimmed eyes, and in his long, lazy blinks.

 

“Why exactly do you need my services, Mister Potter?” Pansy’s voice was clipped as her lips formed a tight pout.

 

He surprised her with a wry laugh, dragging his palm down his stubbled cheek. “I thought it’d be obvious. You help people sleep, and I can’t. Well,” he paused, shaking his messy hair, “I can’t sleep without nightmares that leave my sheets drenched in sweat, and screams so loud that I’m sure my Muggle neighbors will hear me.”

 

“Tell me, do you know _how_ the process works?” Pansy shifted her weight again, willing her eyes not to flinch.

 

“Not really.”

 

“I’m a seer. Among the many talents passed down to me from the generations of witches before me is something called _Somnious._ Through physical contact, I am able to enter your dreams. We would be required–” Pansy cleared her throat. ”–to share a bed.”

 

“That’s fine.”

 

Pansy’s stone facade flickered. “ _That’s fine?_ You’ve no objections to sharing a bed with the girl who tried to hand you over to the Dark Lord?”

 

His emerald eyes peeked up over his glasses and the corner of his mouth pulled up into a slow smirk. “Voldemort’s dead, Pansy. And I just want to fucking sleep.”

 

The black haired witch blinked once, twice, three times. She rose swiftly to her feet, fixing him with a harsh glare. “Forty Galleons for a nap. Lasts one hour. A full night is two-hundred.”

 

“I’ll have my teller send over enough for the fortnight.”

 

“ _A fortnight?”_ Pansy’s brows crumbled. No one had ever asked for more than a nap or a night.

 

“If you’re not previously engaged, that is,” Harry scoffed, and for the first time since their childhood, she studied the sharp lines of his face. He’d allowed a thick beard to cover the square of his jaw, and although his eyes were lidded from exhaustion, they were the most vibrant shade of green she could ever recall.

 

“If you’ve got the money, I’ve got the time.”

 

Harry snorted and rose to his feet. “Spoken like a true Slytherin.” He reached into his trousers and procured a velvet pouch and threw it on the table between them. “There’s fifty for the hour. Lead the way.”

 

* * *

                                                                                                   

Pansy’s heart clattered nervously in her chest as they stood on either side of the four poster bed in the adjoining room. “You’ll need to remove your shirt.”

 

His fingers worked nimbly on his buttons, and he didn’t once meet her gaze, choosing instead to stare at the bed. “How does this work?”

 

“We share dreams. I remain lucid throughout and am able to project my dreams into yours. Are there things you’d rather not see?”

 

His gem-colored eyes shot up to hers and there was a mocking edge to the lines of face. “I would prefer to stay clear away from anything that is remotely to do with the war: death, people who have died, tents, red-eyed murde–”

 

“Got it.” Pansy interrupted and watched with a heated flush as he crawled into bed. She imagined Harry Potter to be a wiry sort of bloke, all skin and bones and scars. Again, she was surprised; there were lean lines of muscle pulling into his trousers and a smattering of chest hair.

 

Harry laid flat on his back, staring up at the canopy of the bed, and with a fortifying sigh, she climbed in next to him. Perched on her side, she lifted one hand to him and felt the curl of his chest hair under her palm, felt the heat radiate into her. His breath caught, and her eyes flickered up to his pinched face.

 

“You’ll need to relax,” she instructed.

 

“Do you put me to sleep?” He asked, his jaw tight and unforgiving.

 

“I can stun you,” she offered, and Harry’s face snapped to meet hers, catching a smile fading from her lips. “Just close your eyes.”

 

The pull of his exhaustion was palpable; it wrapped around her, and soon she felt the familiar tug lulling her to sleep.

 

Their breathing synced, slowing into a low purr, and Pansy watched as wisps of a dream began to form behind her lids. Harry was flying, clutching a thin broom handle until his knuckles turned white, and on the horizon, storm clouds gathered. A rumble of thunder shook around them, and a brilliant flash of lightning created a haunting glow around dozens of dementors that now filled the sky.

 

Pansy felt her heart quicken as a thick fog filled the air around them, and she fought against the hard pull deeper into his mind. Their subconsciouses were tethered, and she needed to be strong enough to bring him with her. With a resounding turn, she took him from the Quidditch pitch and flew him over the hills surrounding the Black Lake.

 

Warmth bloomed in her chest as she felt his happiness wash over her, a calm that came from the freedom of flight, and she sighed in relief. After a few long lazy circles, she heard the chime from her wand, and she blinked herself awake, pulling her hand from his chest.

                                                                                                   

* * *

 

There was a complication Pansy hadn’t foreseen by working with clients on a repetitive basis: it created a false sense of familiarity. Harry had no secrets from her, she was invited into his home, witnessed his heartbreaks and triumphs and was privy to his most intimate thoughts and fears. They experienced them in a strange reality where it was nearly impossible to know where one’s feelings finished and the other’s began, and yet, he was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger.

 

Just as she was about to wake them from their fifth shared dream, she felt the familiar pull into a deeper sleep, and soon he was in a quiet forest, under a canopy of green trees with twinkling stars shining through the leaves.

 

The quiet felt heavy and ugly, and anxiety swelled in her chest.

 

_Too fucking quiet._

 

A rustle in the underbrush and a snapped twig caused her fingers to press deeper into his chest, and she drew her body closer to his.

 

Pansy’s mind tried frantically to conjure a safe moment to bring him to, but the overwhelming silence distracted her from everything else. With clenched eyes, she dragged him from the forest and into her dormitory at Hogwarts.

 

She was standing in her floor length gown, the black satin barely brushing along the cobbled floor. Her silky raven hair was twisted at the nape of her neck, and her signature bangs were still very much intact. This was the night she had felt truly beautiful for the first time. It was the first night Draco had ever paid her any attention as a _girl_ rather than a classmate and childhood friend, and she, for some reason, had brought him here.

 

The dream faded, flickering in and out until it was utter blackness, and Pansy woke with a strangled gasp. She could feel his warmth, and she realized starkly that her body was pressed into his; his arm cradled her neck.

 

She studied his sleeping features, the delicate curve of his lower lip and the straight planes of his nose.

 

With a wary glance at his closed lids, she felt safe enough to remove her touch, and she scrambled from her bed, rubbing her eyes furiously and scolding herself. _This_ wasn’t real. None of it was.

 

They were strangers who shared a bed to chase away nightmares.

 

After a while, when his eyes began darting frantically behind clenched eyelids, she rushed to his side, laying an open palm on his chest and stealing away his troubles for as long as she could.

 

* * *

                                                                                                   

“Are you alright tonight?” Potter eyed her warily from where he stood next to her bed, tugging his t-shirt off over his head with a single fluid movement. The bags under his eyes had lessened over the past week and a half, and he seemed far more alert than when he first arrived.

 

“Fine, Potter. Let’s get this over with. I’m exhausted.” Her eyes were already closed when she felt the bed dip to accommodate his weight. Her hand reached out to touch him, and his fingers closed over them, pressing them to the patch of hair in the centre of his chest. Her eyes shot open when she heard his husky laugh.

 

“You know, I thought I’d have to wait until marriage for a witch to tell me to hurry up in bed so she could get some sleep.”

 

Pansy’s eyes widened in surprise, but they quickly fell to a scolding glare. “Yes, lucky for you. Now I’ve gone and spoiled all the fun. Close your eyes. You’re bugging me.”

 

The black-haired witch closed hers first, as if willing him to follow suit.

 

“Are you, though? Alright?” He asked again, his voice soft.

 

“Just tired. Always tired,” she mumbled in the darkness.

 

“Do you want me to go? Maybe you should sleep tonight?” His fingers were still splayed over hers, and she could feel the quiet thrumming of his heartbeat under her palm.

 

She gulped. “I always sleep. And I’ll sleep better when you quiet down and go to bed.”

 

She heard him chuckle, but when he didn’t argue, she quickly dozed off, barely noticing his hand finding her lower back and gently pulled her flush against   him.

 

Dreams took a while to find her; in her exhaustion, it felt like navigating through a heavy fog.

 

Her fingers trailed lazily behind her, stroking the smooth ebony wood of the bannister as she found a door cracked ajar. There was no fear or anxiety pulsing through her, but she felt a feverish heat settle into her belly when she heard the soft moans coming from the room.

 

She shouldn’t pry, but something drew further, and as her fingers pushed the heavy door, she felt an ache settle between her thighs.

 

Harry was on his knees, shirt tossed on the floor and two creamy thighs draped over his shoulders. Mercilessly, he laved at the woman before him, and Pansy felt her slick heat pool both in the dream and in reality. His hands roamed freely, sliding up the smooth plane of the mystery woman's belly and disappearing behind a sheer canopy.

 

With what seemed to be practiced hands, he slid between the witches legs and the woman moaned fiercely as he pressed two fingers into her, curling and plunging until her thighs tightened around his head and her fingers wound into his messy locks.

 

He mumbled praises into her core, sliding his tongue from the bottom of her slit to her sensitive bud, flicking his tongue there again and again, and when Pansy rounded so she was standing behind Harry, she gasped.

 

She could see herself. Writhing in debauched ecstasy as Harry pushed her knees wide and plunged his tongue into her, fucking her with his mouth until she was fighting the hold on her knees.

 

Pansy’s eyes shot open and met his hard emerald glare in the quiet. Her body was aching, and she could feel his arousal pressing against her belly. With a snap of her wrist, she yanked her hand back. Harry’s hand caught her wrist.

 

His eyes were wide, fringed with worry and uncertainty, and when he realized he was holding her wrist, he released her and rolled quickly away from her.

 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered staring up at the canopy.

 

Pansy’s breath was laboured, and her eyes drifted down their sheets to where his erection strained against the thin fabric. She felt a desperate desire unfurl in her, and all she wanted was to reach out and touch him. She wanted to fucking _feel_ something that wasn’t imagined in someone’s subconscious, and she wanted to feel it with him.

 

Her trembling fingers lifted towards him, but before she could bridge the gap between them, he shot up from her bed, pulling his shirt on hastily.

 

“I’m really sorry. I should go–”

 

“Harry, it’s–”

 

She flinched when the door slammed shut in response.    

         

* * *

                                                                                      

He didn’t return the next night.

 

Nor the night after.

 

On the third night, Pansy was positively enraged as she wrapped her silk robe tightly around her waist and stepped through her Floo and into Grimmauld Place.

 

With a tight jaw, her eyes scoured the dingy room and found Harry asleep in an oversized armchair next to the window. His brows were furrowed, tightly knit together, and she watched as his lips twitched in discomfort.

 

Stupid boy.

 

With a resigned sigh and shake of her head, she lifted her palm to cradle his cheek.

 

She was dragged rather abruptly into his dream, a decidedly different feeling than when they began together. She felt disoriented as she scanned the surroundings: a small bathroom with yellowing tile.The air hung heavy and damp as billows of steam poured from the shower.

 

A familiar prickle of heat flared between her legs, and she slid the curtain back, metal rings scratching against the pole, and her breath caught.

 

It was her again.

 

Harry’s hands ran long paths along her wet skin, and his mouth was latched onto her neck, sucking the hollow of her throat while the shower pelted them both.

 

Moving between them, Harry gripped his stiff length and poised it at her entrance, removing his lips from her skin and pressing his forehead against hers. He drove into her, filling her in a single thrust, and the dream version of herself arched into the movement, tangling her hands in his hair and pulling him closer.

 

Pansy’s skin felt fevered and sensitive; she wanted desperately to trade places with the other version of herself, and almost on cue, Harry’s eyes darted over his shoulder and locked gazes with her.

 

Yanking her hand from his cheek, she startled him awake.

 

He caught her by the elbow before she could retreat, and she noticed his pupils were blown wide, barely a smidge of green visible. He tugged her into his lap, his eyes lidded when he brought his face closer to hers.

 

“You came.”

 

“Well, you didn’t show up. It’s horrible etiquette to stand up someone for an appointment. Especially three days in a row. _Especially_ for someone who has a tendency to get themselves in horrible, life-threatening situations–”

 

Pansy was rambling, trying her best to distract her mind from the way his hands slid into the opening of her robe and across her bare thigh.

 

His eyes flickered to hers, studying her. “If you want me to stop, you better tell me right now.”

 

Pansy’s lip caught between her teeth. Before she could answer, he lifted her effortlessly, rearranging her until she was straddling him in the chair, and his hands worked at the tie around her waist.

 

He pushed it from her shoulders and peppered kisses along her collarbones.

 

Pansy should most definitely object. This was dangerously close to prostitution, and he might very well be half asleep, but then he thrusted into her, and she could feel his hard prick against her heat, and none of that other nonsense mattered.

 

He yanked at her nightie until her breasts were bathed in the stream of moonlight from the large bay window, and with a few swift movements, he had freed his cock and ripped her expensive knickers from her body.

 

“Fuck me,” he pleaded against the thin skin of her neck, and she let out a strangled groan as her slick coated the length of him.

 

She’d never been wanted like this, never felt so rapturously needed as she did sitting on Harry Potter’s lap, his hands roving her soft skin. She lifted up, feeling the head of his prick at her entrance and slid down just barely.

 

Looking down at him, she studied his mesmerizing features while his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips.

 

“Fuck. Please, Pansy.” Hearing her name on his lips ignited something deep in her belly, and she sheathed herself on his cock, a pleasured moan clawing its way from her throat as she tossed her head back.

 

She lifted up again and drove down onto him roughly before rocking her hips against him again and again.

 

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he mumbled before flicking her pebbled nipple with his tongue and lavishing open-mouthed kisses across her breasts.

 

Everytime he spoke, she fucked him harder. She was a woman possessed as the walls of her cunt quickened around him. His hands never stopped moving, running up the ladder of her ribs, down the curve of her back and tangling in the silky shift pooled at her waist.

 

She dared to look down at him, her eyes catching on his lips and realized they had yet to kiss. His head lulled back, resting against the tufted suede of the armchair, and without hesitation, her hands cradled his face, locking her lips onto his and diving her tongue into his mouth as she rode him.

 

He made a sweet, strangled noise as his hands wound up her back and pulled at the nape of her neck.

 

Her breasts rubbed deliciously across his chest, and she felt herself unravel on top of him, bucking against him while he swallowed her moans.

 

He followed her soon after, emptying into her in hard thrusts as his fingers bruised her ivory skin.

 

Forehead to forehead, they shared a panted breath, both unsure of how the previous events had transpired.

 

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, a fevered blush staining her chest and cheeks. She shifted her weight, lifting off of him and pulling up her nighty to cover herself.

 

“Will you stay?” he rushed.

 

Her eyes darted nervously around the room, and she pulled her robe over her, tying it securely in place. “Of course. Our arrangement lasts until tomorrow.”

 

Harry’s eyes darkened, and he shook his head. “Not like that. Will you just… will you stay with me?”

 

“With you?” she asked nervously, insecurity her constant companion.

 

His brow flickered in amusement, his lips catching in a crooked smile. “If you’re not previously engaged.”

 

Nestled in his bed, she instinctively raised her palm to his chest. He stopped her, threading his fingers through hers and turning her around. Snuggling behind her, he wrapped himself around her and burrowed his face in her hair.

 

“What about your nightmares?”

 

“They’ll have to wait. Sleep, Parkinson.”

 

His palm found _her_ chest, his hand curling around her breast, and she bit her lip to keep from smiling. “Fine, Potter. But don’t expect a refund or anything.”

 

His thumb slid along her nipple.  “Noted. I’ll find some other way to settle my debts.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Would love to know what you thought of this piece. 
> 
> Huge thanks to the admins of Slytherin Cabal for hosting this fun challenge!


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